


It's Been Draco For Awhile

by oceaxe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: "Love Potion", Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Partially Epistolary-ish, Potions Expert!Draco, Second person POV, auror!Harry, oh my god they were roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-03-28 07:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13899672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceaxe/pseuds/oceaxe
Summary: What harm can a love potion do if you're already in love?In which Harry finds out that it's not a love potion but it can do quite a lot of harm, and Draco finds out how fiendishly difficult it is to fend off his flatmate's advances when all he wants is to give in to them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for prompt 23: One of them is dosed with a love (or lust) potion and the other refuses to go to bed with them until the potion wears off.
> 
> Thank you so, so much to AmoretteHD for your help and support and endless beta, and Marshview for beta and cheerreading! 
> 
> Fair warning, Harry's POV is in second person. While I know this is turn-off for some, I hope you'll give it a chance. It was surprisingly fun to write and ideally will be fun to read, as well!

It’s been a long day, what with the accidental possible-poisoning and the Mediwitches hovering over you and Robards telling you off for being careless on the site again, and you feel like just having a lager and a long wank when you get home. The wards chime as they let you in, the smell of sauteeing garlic hitting you as you take off your cloak. You smile and your stomach rumbles in anticipation. It’s a lucky thing that Draco likes to cook. 

Malfoy. 

You have to call him Malfoy, you remind yourself. He flinches when you use his given name. 

The last couple of months have been rather a rollercoaster, but it all seems to be going nicely now. Draco—Malfoy, rather—cooks most of the time. On other nights, you order takeaway for Floo-delivery, and you usually play a few rounds of chess after dinner or gossip about old classmates or watch something on the magi-telly before heading off to your separate beds. 

Who could have guessed that you would make such good flatmates? For years, you’d been dreading Ron and Hermione finally getting hitched and moving out. After the war, during a brief, ill-fated stint at Grimmauld Place, it became clear that you hate living alone, so you’d sold it and moved in with your best friends. But as time went by, all your other friends got themselves married, or buggered off elsewhere. You’re the odd man out, the lone wolf with no partner. 

As it so happened, however, the day before the wedding you discovered that Malfoy had finally found a buyer for the Manor. It seemed like fate. The flat had room for his lab, and he didn’t have to worry about trying to find a new house right away while he got his new potions-analysis consulting business going. It’s been a win-win. Even though you couldn’t exactly describe yourselves as ‘friends’ from the get-go, it has worked out brilliantly. For the most part.

The sound of Malfoy singing softly to himself drifts through the kitchen door along with the sound of something sizzling and your stomach rumbles again. 

“I can hear you all the way over here,” Malfoy says without turning around. “Cast a silencing charm on that bottomless pit, it’s ruining my appetite.” 

You laugh and start setting the table. “You should feel flattered. It’s a compliment to your house-elf skills, you tit.”

“It’s barbaric and uncouth,” he retorts, and you can hear the smile in his voice. It’s been such a surprise, learning that once he feels safe, Draco— _Malfoy_ —can actually take a joke. “What took you so long to get home?”

“I was in the infirmary for awhile. This bloody investigation keeps getting worse.” 

Draco looks over his shoulder, an expression of concern on his face as he stirs whatever’s in the cast iron pan. “What happened? You look fine.” 

You feel a flush of heat, the aftereffect of the way Draco’s gaze sweeps over you from head to foot. “I _feel_ fine. Mostly. I was testing a phial for curse-traces and accidentally absorbed some potion that spilled out. They cleared me to go when they couldn’t detect anything potentially harmful in the potion.”

“What potion?” Draco has turned around fully now, scowling at you. You’re not fooled, you know he’s worried. He gets this look on his face whenever you come home from an Auror shift with an injury. You rather enjoy it.

“Well, we don’t know,” you say, trying to sound unconcerned. “They didn’t recognize it. But it was nothing poisonous, nothing dark. I’m fine,” you repeat. “I feel fine.” Draco gives you another searching once-over that feels almost like a physical touch, then returns to his pan, cursing under his breath about the ignorance of the Auror Department. 

“What’s for dinner?” you ask, walking to the range to peer over Draco’s shoulder. It looks like some kind of tagine and it smells delicious, but Draco’s neck smells even more delicious, somehow. You give it a lingering kiss, your nose buried in the short hairs just behind his ear, and Draco stiffens against you.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” you say, and back away. You can’t believe you did that. You didn’t mean to do that. 

“Fuck!” Draco slides out from between you and the range, whirling around with a hand on the back of his neck where you’d just planted your mouth. “What was _that_?” 

He stands and stares at you, and you’ve got nothing. There’s no explanation. You hold your hands out to the side, fingers spread wide, probably gaping like a fish at your own stupidity. 

“Oh fuck, Potter. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

Okay, so this is a bit insulting, not to say upsetting. Draco looks like he’s about to have a breakdown. 

“What?” you say, wanting this situation to just blow over. It was just a little kiss. Not even on the mouth. Now _there’s_ an idea—you find yourself taking a step towards him, and then another, and he plasters himself against the counter. Good, he’ll be nice and braced and you can press up against him, pin him against the counter as you slip your tongue into that gorgeous, sly, mouth. You’re angling your head and his lips are parting...

You reel back as Draco slaps you, hard, across the cheek. 

“Potter!” he cries, sounding frantic. “Stop this!”

You stand and gape at him, looking even more idiotic than the first time, you’re sure. What the fuck is going on? 

“It was a love potion. It—you were dosed with a love potion. Or a lust potion. Oh Merlin. Oh shit.” 

“A lust potion? A love…” your brain stutters to a halt on the word ‘love.’ 

Draco puts his hands over his face and shakes his head, then turns back to the range to switch the heat off and move the pan away from the hob. “Fucking hell,” he says with his back turned. “Are you... Are you feeling uncontrollably aroused right now?” 

You take a breath and close your eyes. Are you? Well, you’re aroused from having had Draco’s skin under your lips a moment ago, his scent in your nose, tantalising and unique and… so yeah, you’ve got a bit of a stiffy. But are you about to jump him? No. No, you don’t think so. 

“No. I’m not.. I mean, a little,” and you flush horribly at that admission. Fuck, what the hell is in your system right now? “But I’m—I’ve got it under control.” 

“That’s good to know,” Draco says, his chest rising and falling far too fast. He looks wigged out, eyes wide and distrusting, as if you’re about to strike like a poisonous snake. You back away, and he relaxes visibly.

So you keep backing away, until you bump into a chair and sit down on it, heavily. Suddenly the enormity of what’s just happened hits you and you groan. 

“Oh my god, Draco,” you say, and flinch. You’ve said his given name again. “Malfoy. I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t mean to.” That’s a lie; it’s not like you didn’t want to, but you certainly never would have allowed yourself to do it if… if you hadn’t… You cover your face and drop your head to the table with a clunk.

“I know,” Draco says soothingly, his voice still shaky. “I know you didn’t. It’s not you, it’s the potion.” He stands there for a moment while you replay the kiss over and over in your mind. Your stiffy is graduating from a “bit of one” to a “full-on one,” so you force yourself to remember the time you made out with Ginny and realised it was like kissing a sibling.

Meanwhile, Draco has gone back to puttering around the kitchen, muttering under his breath. After a minute or so, he turns to you and says, “Stop feeling sorry for yourself, you berk, and tell me why those arseholes at the infirmary didn’t send you to St. Mungos.” 

“Because if it is a love potion, it’s a new one that no one knows about yet, so there wouldn’t be an antidote to administer.” Draco crosses his arms and nods at this, and you go back to resting your head on the table, because it’s easier to deal with this if you can’t see him. You can hear him, though, and he’s pacing and moving things on the counter in an increasingly agitated way. Your stomach tenses.

“Fuck!” he suddenly bursts out. “Potter, give me your arm.”

You look up to see Draco—Malfoy, damn it—looming over the table and reaching for your arm, an expression of terrifying determination on his lovely face. He takes your arm, and you offer no resistance. His wand tip presses against the vein in the tender crook of your elbow. 

“This might hurt a little,” he says distractedly, his entire focus on his wand as, with a nearly subvocal spell, the skin parts to reveal a hole through which a thin stream of blood floats up and into a vial that Draco holds in his other hand. Once it’s stoppered, Draco presses his fingers against the tiny hole in your skin and murmurs _Episkey_. Your eyes flutter shut at the gentle contact. “That feels nice,” you say.

Draco pulls his hand away as if your skin has somehow burned him. He laughs awkwardly. “You like getting holes poked in you?” 

You shake your head. “No, the feel of your magic on my skin,” you clarify. His cheeks flush and he swallows back some kind of retort. 

“I’m going to take this to my lab and analyse the fuck out of it, Potter,” he says as he picks up the vial of your blood and walks towards the door. “I’m not surprised in the least that those idiots at the DMLE can’t figure it out, but I’m going to get to the bottom of this. We’ll get you sorted.”

You nod, distracted by the way the light plays on the fine blond strands of his hair. It has somehow gotten mussed and you want to run your fingers through it, but he’s standing too far away. So you get up and walk towards him, and he stands there waiting for you, tracking your movement with wide eyes. As you reach out to smooth his flyaways, though, he flinches. 

“Woah, alright,” he says and steps back, hands in front of him. “We’re going to have to set some rules.”

A pang goes through you. Fuck. You’re upsetting him. You have to stop doing that. But all your impulses feel so right! It’s almost the way Felix Felicis felt, lighting up your insides with glowing certainty. Your hand drops to your side. “Sorry about that,” you mutter.

Draco’s face tightens. “It’s—it’s fine. No worries. But, er, you know, it’s not. We’re not—we can’t—” he breaks off, his skin having turned a magnificent shade of magenta. 

“No. I know. It’s… it wouldn’t be consensual.” You can’t expect Draco to just put up with your suddenly wandering hands. He’s never given a sign that he returns your interest. To be fair, up until about half an hour ago, you’d been suppressing those signs yourself. Pretty well, you think, given the strength of your attraction and how often you’ve fantasized about being, well, more than just flatmates. 

Feelings which are clearly not returned, judging by how horrified Draco is at the moment. 

What a nightmare.

“I should just turn in. I’ll do better tomorrow. You know, I’ll just...keep my distance. And you’ll…”

Draco nods vigorously. “Yeah. I’ll get your blood sample going tonight, I’ve got a raft of diagnostic spells I’ve been refining. Shouldn’t take more than, er. A fortnight. Or so. Maybe less, depending on what the ingredients turn out to be.”

A fortnight of this? Of not being able to stop yourself giving in to every desire you have to touch Draco, kiss him, stroke his pale skin, take him in your arms… Before you know it, you’re moving towards him again and he’s stopping you with his arms outstretched. You grimace and your gut burns with shame.

Once again, you back away, this time not stopping until you’re on the opposite side of the room. “I’m sorry about this; really, really sorry.” You genuinely would like to Banish yourself to another dimension. 

“It’s not your fault,” Draco says miserably. “Only… I might, er, put a ward on my door tonight. No offense.”

“None taken. It’s a good idea.” And with that, you turn and go to your bedroom, not having eaten any dinner. Doesn’t matter, you feel sick to your stomach anyway. 

Sleep doesn’t come for a long time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the Journal of Draco Malfoy

September 29, 2004

Analysis of sample set up via three different vectors. Need to rule out cognitional influences (likely) and blood magic (unlikely). Might need another sample based on possible accelerated decay/half-life of active ingredients outside the host/target.

Host/target appears healthy and coherent. Except for that look of unfocused lust that makes me want to strip off his clothes and bend him over the table. Fuck. I thought I was getting a handle on my attraction to him. Apparently not.

Ruled out cognition-related magics. Active ingredients appear to be based in the enchantment arts. Need to isolate the strand of aconite and integrate it with another sample of untainted blood to determine intended effect. 

When he kissed my neck, I actually had a moment of thinking that it was real. That he was … ugh, don’t put it into words. 

That he was attracted to me. But of course, no. “Oh, fuck,” he said. 

Yeah, fuck, Potter. Fucking hell. Only a bloody potion in his veins. So now he’s going to keep coming for me and how in Merlin’s name am I going to hold him off, when all I want is his body under mine? 

I warded my bedroom door from both sides last night, just in case my libido had me sleepwalking into his room and lying down on top of him. Must stop thinking of scenarios of capitulation. He himself said it wouldn’t be consensual. Just because the potion makes him want it doesn’t mean _he_ wants it.

He doesn’t want it.

He doesn’t want me.

***

October 1, 2004

It’s at least two branches of magic operating on both the magic of the host and the biological substrate. Hellebore is the main active ingredient that I can isolate so far, and the bad news is that the decay of effectiveness is extremely slow. If the other active ingredients have similar decay rates, this could go on for a month or more. 

I’m so extremely fucked. 

Today after work, he called me “love” and caressed my back as he passed by me in the living room. 

So we’re likely looking at a love potion, then, with a strong component of physical compulsion. 

If all it takes is the warmth of his hand on my back to get me rock hard, I’m not going to survive this.

***

October 3, 2004

The remaining active ingredients are proving impossible to isolate. I have a feeling that there’s actually three branches of magic in play here and the ingredients have been adulterated or otherwise adapted in ways I’m not familiar with. This actually reminds me of an ancient alchemical recipe I studied a long time ago— too bad I sold Father’s collection of grimoires along with the Manor. I should have my solicitor make a formal request for access, but who knows if they’ll allow it.

Monitoring of Host/target… oh fuck it. Watching Harry go through this is torture. He so clearly doesn’t want to be feeling the way the potion is forcing him to feel. He can hardly bear to be around me. No sooner do I enter the room than he leaves, hunched over and miserable. He won’t even meet my eyes. I miss playing chess with him. I don’t think he’s eating. I’m worried for him. 

I want to murder the felonious fuckheads who set that trap for him. Of course, given that it happened on Gibbon’s estate, it’s as likely as not that it was set decades ago and Harry just blundered his way into it. Still. I’m fucking mad as hell. He doesn’t need this. I certainly don’t fucking need this. 

We were doing so well. I’d finally gotten him trained to stop relying on the Sicilian opening for every single chess game. And I’d just got myself trained to keep my eyes on my coffee mug in the mornings, since his wrecked hair and sleepy eyes always make me want to herd him back into his bedroom and… well, whatever. I thought we were becoming friends. 

***

October 10, 2004

I could be wrong. I could be wrong. I almost hope I’m wrong because honestly I can’t stand the thought of being right, it’s… I’m getting ahead of myself. Slow down and evaluate.

The potion is not wearing off. This is atypical of love/lust potion behavior. Normally, no matter how long-lasting the effects, they would lose potency as time goes on. Which means that Harry should be acting more normally, not less. But he’s acting less and less like himself. He stares at me if we’re in the same room and it seems like he’s magnetically drawn to whatever room I’m in. He’s also, sweet Merlin, clearly struggling with erections around me. Pulling random things over his lap when he sits, holding his hands in front of him when he stands. 

What I would give to help him with that little problem. It’s not a little problem. It’s a big problem. A lovely, large problem between his legs that I would dearly love to…. Oh fuck this, you creep. Stop it.

The only potions I know of that increase in potency over time are the ones that actively work on volition and that strengthen as the subject attempts to fight it.

The difference between this and a love potion is that the love potion simulates an emotion. A lust potion simulates a physical response. But Veritaserum, for example, a potion that works on volition, plays on a subject’s natural desire to be truthful. It seems like I’m looking at something like that, that affects the natural instincts of the subject. Like a variation on Imperius in potion form, calibrated to the subject’s actual desires instead of someone else's commands, that gets stronger the more your resist it. The inclusion of hellebore would seem to confirm this. It’s some kind of potion that works to break down inhibitions.

Which means that if Harry’s resisting his actual, real impulses—

No. I must be missing something. Wishful thinking will derail you every time, Draco. This is too important for you to fuck up with your delusions.

I’ve started setting a personal alarm ward on every room I’m in, just so I get that half-second of warning before he enters. It helps me brace myself, remind myself that I’m not allowed to respond to his heated gaze, or his parted lips, or that look of yearning, or his endearments—oh fuck, his endearments, Merlin in Hades. He doesn’t mean any of it. He would hate me if I took advantage. Well, no, that’s probably not true, but he would definitely have a right to hate me. 

My dick is starting to chafe. I’m starting to hate myself.

I’ve identified the third branch of magic. Still haven’t heard from my solicitor about getting access to the grimoires.  



	3. Chapter 3

“Harry?” You hear Draco’s voice echo down the hallway. He’s only checking to see if you’re here because he doesn’t want to run into you, but you can’t help the way your heart leaps at the sound of his voice. He’s started calling you Harry because you can’t stop calling him Draco. While that seems like a sure sign he doesn’t hold any of this against you, you wish he’d decided to use your first name out of something better than pity.

“Yeah, I’m in my room,” you say, and fight the urge to go to him. It doesn’t work. You’re on your feet as soon as the thought has occurred to you. You’re fairly certain you know what the true nature of the potion is. It had begun to dawn on you within the first twenty-four hours and with each passing day, it’s become more clear. You dread the moment when Draco solves the conundrum, because then he’ll know. And you’ll be alone again. 

No more coming home to a warm, fragrant kitchen. No more chess games where he tries to conceal how easy he’s going on you. No more hilarious re-enactments of scenes from your mutual, traumatic history, making you feel understood on a level that you don’t share with anyone else. Not even Ron and Hermione, who prefer to keep silent about the events of the war. Especially about your death. The story of which Draco has turned in a multi-part pantomime that never fails to leave you helpless with cathartic laughter. 

While you’re thinking this, your feet are carrying you to your door. Meanwhile, Draco’s feet have been carrying him towards your room for some reason, so you collide with him as soon as you’ve opened the door. He reels backwards and your arm wraps around his back to pull him upright, flush against you. His face is no more than three inches from yours and his mouth is open. It’s almost certainly shock, or just garden-variety surprise, but it looks so much like welcome. An invitation. You lean in and your lips touch his, warm and soft. 

The next thing you know, you’re staggering backwards and he’s in the hallway, breathing hard and staring at his hands as though they’ve betrayed him. Then he’s staring at you as though _you’ve_ betrayed him, and that hurts. It’s not my fault, you want to whine, but it is, it is your fault because you _want_ this. Well, not like _this_ , but you want to kiss him; on his lips, his neck, his… You forcefully end that thought as you feel your body twitch forward. 

It doesn’t matter why the potion makes it impossible to resist your impulses, the fact is that if you didn’t want to kiss him, this wouldn’t be happening. Clearly, your actual feelings for him are amplifying the effects of the potion. You clench your eyes shut and say, “I’m sorry.” There’s really nothing else to say. You try to blank your thoughts entirely for the space of a few breaths.

When you open your eyes, you see that Draco is sitting on the ground with his hands over his face. He mutters, “I hate this.” 

There’s no real reason for the pain in your gut when he says that, it’s not like you thought he was welcoming any of it. Suddenly you know the right thing to do. You have to tell him why the potion is so strong, so hard to resist. “It’s my fault. This is my fault.” 

Draco shakes his head, his hands still obscuring his expression. The words _I hate this_ reverberate in your mind and your resolve falters. Instead you say, “I should just move out until this has worn off.”

Draco’s hands fall away and he jumps up and walks towards you for a half step, before jerking back and hitting the wall. “No. Don’t move out. It’s—it’s your place. And besides, it’s my failure, not yours.”

Your heart clenches at that, that Draco would find a way to blame this on himself. “How could it possibly be your fault? Unless you’re the one who put that potion in the vial.” You force a chuckle, hoping to ease the tension. 

“It’s taking me too long to figure it out. Actually, well,” Draco says slowly, his gaze dropping from yours. “I had an idea about what’s happening. It, er, seems like it’s not wearing off. Is it? It’s getting stronger, isn’t it?”

You nod. There’s no point denying it; he’s got eyes and ears. 

“And you’ve been fighting it.” 

You nod again, staring at the ground. “For all the good it’s done.”

“Yeah. I think this is a—” he breaks off, looking unfocused for a second. “So I’ve, er, confirmed that this is the type of potion that gets stronger because you’re resisting it.” There’s a long pause. “Do you think it would help take the edge off it if you made out with someone? Or… er, whatever?”

The thought of trying to do... whatever… with someone other than Draco makes your skin crawl. “No. I’m not interested in… doing that. I don’t think that would help.”

“What if, you know, hypothetically speaking, what if I let you…?” Draco trails off, swallowing hard. “If you didn’t go, erm. Hands above the waist and all that.” He looks manic and flushed as he says this.

A trickle of sweat runs down the back of your neck. The effort of forcing yourself to not want anything from Draco in this moment is excruciating. 

But the thought of kissing Draco breaks through your attempts at control. You see yourself sucking on his lower lip, your hands sliding around his back, caressing the muscles overlaying his ribcage. You see how your hands slide lower and you know you wouldn’t be able to stop. Any contact would make the ache, the compulsion, the temptation so much worse. 

A flicker of an image crosses your mind--you sinking down between Draco’s knees, swallowing his cock. 

“Cast Incarcerous on me right now,” you say through gritted teeth. “Right now, Draco.” 

Draco does, his hands shaking, and ropes shoot out from his wand to wind tightly around your legs and arms. You let out a sigh, relieved that you no longer have to worry about doing the wrong thing, about letting him down. Another long moment passes. 

“I don’t think that would help either. Thank you, though,” you say, distantly noting how your muscles are trembling. The world is going a bit fuzzy around the edges. Draco is wild-eyed and intense, his gaze boring into yours. 

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” you find yourself saying. “What the hell was I thinking? We should definitely make out.” Then the world goes dark as you crumple and fall the the floor.

When you come to, you’re in bed and Draco is in a chair across the room, legs and arms crossed, foot jiggling restlessly. 

“What the… what happened?” You’re not bound by the magical ropes of Incarcerous anymore, but you feel like you’ve been hit by the Knight Bus. 

“I think the effort of resisting, er, temptation, was too much for you.” Draco runs his hand through his hair and tugs on the end, a sure sign that he’s overwhelmed and about to crack under the stress. 

You stare at the circles under his eyes and want to do something to soothe him. You’re out of bed in the space of that thought but it doesn’t register on you that you’ve moved until you hit an invisible barrier. No, that’s not right—it’s more like you’ve come to the end of a tether that’s somehow restraining you from the inside. Somewhere around your solar plexus. One hand continues to reach towards Draco, but your body can’t move closer. 

Draco jumps and looks guilty at the confusion on your face. “In order to keep us both from doing something we don't want to do, I cast a spell that prevents you coming within four feet of me.”

You hang your head and nod. It’s a good solution. “I’m sorry,” you say. It feels like that’s all you say to him these days. 

“No more apologizing,” Draco says forcefully, getting up out of the chair and beginning to pace. “Neither one of us wanted this... situation to occur. It’s no one’s fault and I’m not upset with you.” 

“Thanks for saying that. It means a lot.” 

“And no more thanking me, either,” he glares at you, then smiles crookedly. “I’m just being realistic here. And besides, if I can come up with an antidote to this, I can probably reverse engineer the original potion and concoct a non-morally-objectionable use for it. Maybe make some serious Galleons. Since you’ve acted as the test subject, I could _possibly_ be convinced to cut you in on the profits.” He raises a conspiratorial eyebrow at you, acting more like himself than he has in over a week.

“Ah, it’s not just altruism, what a relief,” you say as you sit back down on the bed, still feeling knackered. You let your gaze rove over him as he starts talking about getting to work on the antidote. He’s not paying attention to you now, his razor-sharp brain has him going a mile a minute. You love watching him when he’s like this; you can practically feel the connections he’s making, the fizzing excitement of neurons snapping with efficient brilliance. 

You track his motions and the up and down timbre of his voice until your eyes slide shut again. Distantly, you notice that he’s trailed off, then the lights go out and the door closes. 

In the morning, you wake up and lie in bed for a moment, letting yourself think about that fraction of a moment in which your lips touched Draco’s. It’s not what you would have wanted your first kiss with him to be like, not remotely. But Draco’s lips felt exactly the way you’ve always known they would, down to the silkiness of his skin and the faint feeling of his pale, sparse scruff. 

The spell Draco cast makes you feel safer than you’ve felt at home in over two weeks, now that there’s no risk of you suddenly finding yourself on top of him. So you let yourself think about his lips a little bit more, until you’re getting hard and also feeling a bit like you might cry. Which is ridiculous, so you free your cock from your joggers and let your mind take things further, your hand helping it along until you’re panting and pushing up into your fist desperately.


	4. Chapter 4

October 12, 2004

Well, this is grand. This is a grand situation I’ve landed myself in. I feel like I’m losing my bloody mind.

Theory confirmed that the potion’s increase in intensity is proportional to the resistance exerted by the subject/victim. Additionally, there is a threshold beyond which it is not healthy for the subject to resist. Harry fucking passed out on me the night of the 10th. 

To be fair, it was my fault. In a moment of disgusting weakness, I offered myself to him, “to take the edge off.” Like I was doing him a favor—what a laugh. Craven, self-serving bullshit. But his reaction... Fuck fuck fuck. 

He wants me. He must do, that has to be the answer.

I can’t stop thinking about the way his lips felt.

The solicitor finally wrote about the grimoires, he’s sending them via courier and I should get them tomorrow. If I can finally confirm the alchemical strain, I’ll essentially have the whole picture and can hopefully get going on the antidote.

We’ve reached an agreement that, since he can’t actually come within four feet of me, he can stare at me as long as he likes and say whatever he likes, so that he doesn’t end up having an aneurysm. I still catch him stopping himself from speaking, but he’s been watching me like a hawk watches a mouse. Normally I don’t like that. Normally I’m the hawk. I find I don’t mind it much, when it’s him. 

When it’s him, and I can see his cock through his stupid threadbare Muggle pants. Thank Merlin he doesn’t seem to have any trouble refraining from touching himself in front of me, I hate to think what would happen if he were to start rubbing one out… actually, I love to think about that, unrepentant slut that I am. 

But no.

Even if it turns out that Harry does feel that way about me, I can’t possibly do anything about it until the potion has worn off. Because if Harry’s felt this way for a while and hasn’t acted on it until now—the fucking savior of the Wizarding world doesn’t seem like the type to sit on his feelings or fail to reach for what he wants—then he must have other reasons for not wanting to change our relationship. 

Which actually begs the question: to the extent that it appears that Harry wants me, what does he want me _for_? Are we dealing with love or lust, here? 

He’s called me ‘love,’ ‘darling,’ he makes me coffee most mornings, he leaves the marmalade on the counter. But maybe that’s how Gryffindor lust manifests, how would I know? I suppose I shouldn’t have tuned out Pansy’s long-winded paeans to Neville back when they were dating. 

***

October 15, 2004

This isn’t working. Firstly, someone needs to rehabilitate Harry’s wardrobe. Whatever maniacal training regimen the DMLE has the junior Aurors on has made all his vests too tight, and since his vests appear to be about a thousand years old and hence transparent as well, I spend half my morning pretending not to notice his nipples. I burned my hand today because I was too busy trying to suppress a fantasy of taking one of those delicious, pert nubs in my mouth and didn’t look to see that the hob was on. 

Harry, damn his eyes, wouldn’t leave for work until he was convinced his amateur-hour healing spell had set me to rights. How are his hands that warm? How is anyone that warm without falling into a febrile seizure? Speaking of fevers and seizures, I spent the rest of the morning in my room and no work was accomplished. 

He had an erection the entire time he was healing my hand. Merciful Circe, how does he not know I want him? The air between us felt like it was actually vibrating with tension. 

The antidote is going to be fiendishly difficult. The alchemical treatise in the Telchines’ grimoire makes it clear that the cognitional magic interacts with the hellebore in such a way that a sample of the affected system has to be physically introduced into the antidote or it won’t work on the subject. For any given victim, the antidote would have to be brewed specifically to target their psychological make-up. 

But I won’t know what that sample consists of until I confirm the target of the potion through the Wei Boyang-derived text. 

***

October 18, 2004

Well, the Wizengamot would surely love to know that I’ve landed in a hell far worse than anything they were able to devise for me in the aftermath of the war. 

For the past three days, Harry has come home from work late, avoided me like the plague, and disappeared into his bedroom to jack off. With no silencing spell. 

I have to wonder if he wants me to hear. 

I do hear. I can’t help but hear, because I can’t stop myself from standing near his door, my heart beating so hard it’s a miracle he hasn’t heard it. He was making the most gorgeous, broken sounds and I just stood there, so turned on I was shaking, almost rubbing up against the door frame. And then he began moaning my name.

There’s not much I would have stopped at, as a 16-year-old boy with a neverending cockstand for my hated rival, to know that this scenario lay in my future. Well, past-me can go fuck himself, since he’s certainly not going to be fucking Harry Potter any time soon. This scenario is purest torture and I’m not sure how much longer I can put either one of us through it. 

Try to think logically here. What if I … fucking hell, what if I _had_ opened that door? That’s what’s doing my head in right now. What if I had opened that door and seen him, laid out on his bed with his legs spread, knees up, one hand fingering his arse open, the other fisting his cock? What would I have done? What would he have done? 

I know I could still be wrong about the nature of the potion, but honestly the probability of that is fairly low. If this is consensual, then why in the name of all that is magical am I denying us what we could so easily have? What we both want, so badly I can already taste his come on my tongue? 

He knows, he has to know I want him. And if he wants me, then… but what if...

Shit. 

What if this is about Harry not wanting—what if he’s physically attracted to me but that’s all it is? And he doesn’t want to give me the wrong idea, because he can see that I do want more than that? 

***

October 20, 2004

I have to move out. Pansy will let me stay for a few weeks. After that, who knows. 

***

October 21, 2004

I’ve got a temporary lab set up in Pansy’s guest room. (Not that she knows about it. She also doesn’t know how strong my Disillusion spells have become over the years, and further she doesn’t know that my hairline is receding.)

I was right, as it happens. When I told Harry this morning that I was going to move out until I could get the antidote sorted, he barely looked at me. “Say hi to Parkinson for me,” he said, and walked back into his room. So much for my delusional hopes that it might be about something more than physical attraction. 

Fuck this potion and fuck this whole situation. 

And fuck these damned Black genes that make me irresistibly and magnetically gorgeous. 

(Luna would say that using humour as a means of distancing one’s feelings from the situation at hand is not a viable long term solution, but Luna is married to the Girl Weasley of her dreams, so what does she know?)

Part of me wants to just tell him. Just get it all out in the open. “Potter, I have feelings for you. Tender feelings. I want you to come home and kiss me on the back of the neck every night and call me love and bolt down the dinner I’ve made with your atrocious table manners and let me fuck you over every surface in this fucking flat and I want to hold your hand while we’re watching the magi-telly and I want this indefinitely. Forever, for preference. Exclusively and forever.” 

Too bad Lucius raised a fucking coward. 

Hold on. Back up. Luna would tell me to lovingly interrogate that last statement. I’m not a coward. At least, not entirely. I’m _choosing_ (Active Action, not Passive Identity) not to reveal my feelings because I can’t take the risk (for myself _or_ for him) that the potion doesn’t work the way I think it does. Because if it’s just a variation on a lust potion, then my feelings might break the dam on something he chose not to act on when he was in his right mind. 

I won’t put him through that. 

It’s the same situation. It’s the same situation. It’s the same miserable situation, and Pansy is going to have to replenish her Firewhiskey post-haste.

***

October 25, 2004

The results are in. The potion lowers the victim’s inhibitions to their own suppressed desires. 

Harry wants me. 

On some level, _he wants me._

The key is finding out what level that is. Because if it’s only physical, I’ll… fucking hell, I’ll probably give in. I want him so badly. The thought of never having his body under mine, never running my hands over his chest and arms and his hair, his damned fucking impossible hair… but then, what? 

Living with someone who just thinks you’re fit? You’re in love with him. It’s time to confront that. 

I want to see him immediately and I don’t want to see him for the next month. I don’t know what I want. 

But I don’t have a choice, really, because this antidote has to be keyed very specifically to the victim’s suppressed desire. I have to ask Harry to give me one of his thoughts. 


	5. Chapter 5

Something is wrong with you.

The DMLE thinks there’s something wrong with your magical core. Your partner stopped covering for your exhaustion days ago, and since then you’ve been tested and scanned and poked. Your aura’s been evaluated by no less than three mystic hags from various parts of the globe and Robards is starting to make noises about an involuntary sabbatical. Junior Aurors don’t take sabbaticals, for Merlin’s sake. It’s only because of who you are that they would begin to think of offering such a thing. They don’t want the public to panic about their precious “Saviour.”

You know the answer is much more simple. It’s resisting the potion that has drained you, body and soul. But you haven’t told anyone at the department the full truth about your predicament because you want Draco to solve this. 

You want Draco to solve this because he needs the break. The arseholes at the Wizengamot wouldn’t let him apply to consult with the DMLE, based on his record. But if they could only see how talented he is, you know they’d relent. Draco needs this. It’s the only way he’d accept your help; if he doesn’t realise he’s receiving it. Luckily you have the perfect excuse for withholding the extent of your condition.

On the remote chance that it ever came up, you’d simply say that you didn’t want anyone to know how you felt. 

But in the meantime, you’ve been fighting the effects of the potion harder than ever. You've barely been able to interact with Draco lately, for fear that he’ll do something to break your hard-won control. Which is why, when he told you at breakfast the other day that he was moving out, you didn’t look at him or say much of anything. You felt like you were dying again; that everything you cared for was being ripped away. You wanted to beg him not to go, but how could you?

He doesn’t deserve to be part of this mess, not unless it’s going to benefit him in some way. So you watched him move out. It’s for the best.

Back to the thing that is wrong with you. As you lay in bed after Draco told you he was leaving, you thought that at least one silver lining might be a lessening of the need to resist. After all, if he wasn’t in your vicinity, then the impulses might be easier to control.

But _out of sight, out of mind_ is not, apparently, something that Harry J. Potter’s obsessive brain has ever heard of. You think back to sixth year and laugh. How could you ever have believed that simply not seeing Draco would be enough to free you of him? 

No, it hasn’t worked out that way, you admit to yourself as you pace outside the door of his bedroom. You are trying not to open the door and look inside, but it’s a losing battle. You need to know how much of his stuff he took with him, need to gauge how long he might be planning to be away. He said it might be a few weeks, but the image of his room, barren and picked clean of anything that belongs to him, won’t leave you alone.

You open his door slowly, and you can see the room isn’t emptied out. Relief floods you and you step in without really intending to—par for the course, lately. His bed is unmade and you tense again. It strikes you how frantic he must have been to leave. 

You can smell him in here, the way you haven’t been able to in days. You walk closer to the bed and lay on it, surrounded by his scent, and roll over until your nose is buried in his sheets. Instantly you’re hard, and all rational thought and any chance of resistance has fled. You grope your cock through your joggers and moan, still nuzzling his pillow. You bring yourself off to Draco’s scent and the mere idea of him being here in his own bed, imagining that you're jacking his cock the way you’re doing yours now. What you would do with him, if you found him—pin him to the bed, inhale his erection, work it with your tongue and hand until he was begging you to let him come. 

As soon as you’ve come, you feel terrible. Truly awful, like you’ve committed a crime. You cast an Evanesco on the bed and yourself and then cover your face, feeling the beginnings of a breakdown coming on. This was manageable before, before that bloody accident, before that sodding fucking potion, and now it’s a goddamned nightmare. Worse than, because now you’re dragging Draco into it. 

On the other hand, you think for the first time, at least now you know. Now you know how intense your feelings really are. You’ve been suppressing them for the good of your budding friendship, wanting to savour it and being so grateful for a flatmate who fits so well into your home. Into your life. So grateful to know what it’s like to get to know someone you’ve always wanted to know, at last. Someone who’s never believed the hype, who’s always had your number, and who apparently likes you anyway.

You got so good at pushing it all down, you had no idea how much had accumulated down there, in the depths of you. It’s… a lot. 

One last look around the room, and then you turn to leave, vowing not to come in here again. As you’re closing the door, your gaze lands on the desk and you see something with your name on it. It’s a… fucking hell, it’s a journal or diary or something. 

You pick it up and it’s the last page of a journal, dated the day of the accident. In Draco’s handwriting.

> September 29, 2004
> 
> Analysis of sample set up via three different vectors. Need to rule out cognitional influences (likely) and blood magic (unlikely). Might need another sample based on possible accelerated decay/half-life of active ingredients outside the host/target.
> 
> Host/target appears healthy and coherent. Except for that look of unfocused lust that makes me want to strip off his clothes and bend him over the table. Fuck. I thought I was getting a handle on my attraction to him. Apparently not. 

You read the whole entry, your heart pounding so hard it’s giving you a headache. The best headache, a headache you could live with for the rest of your life, a headache that means Draco wants you. Draco wants you! You sink to the floor, landing on your knees, clutching the journal like a lifeline. You feel like the heroine in a bloody romance novel and you don’t give a flying fuck.

Draco wants to take your clothes off and fuck you over… _holy shit_. Draco’s been fighting his attraction, too. Draco wants your body under his. Draco doesn’t know how he’s going to handle this. 

Draco feels the _same way you do_. It’s incredible, too incredible to believe, and yet…

You sit on your heels and read it through again, wishing he’d left behind more pages. You can hardly believe your eyes; it’s like every holiday in history has come on one day. Better than, because this is something you’ll share with him too, the unbelievable relief of knowing that it’s not all a delusional, unwanted fantasy. On your third read-through, though, you begin to see what he’s not saying. 

Lust, libido, bodies, attraction. Fucking. There’s nothing more than that. No love, or feelings, or warmth. He just wants your body. 

Not you.

And just like that, your euphoria evaporates. You have no idea what to do now. Shaking, you replace his journal on the desk and leave the room. 

The next day, Ron and Hermione come over for dinner and you can’t help but tell them the truth about what’s been going on. Well, part of the truth, anyway. The part about a suspected love potion, and accidentally kissing Draco, and the exhaustion of resisting the potion, and the trouble at work because of it. Hermione, predictably, is outraged that you didn’t come to her first, but you explain that once Draco took up the case, you wanted to give him the chance to solve it. She nods, looking at you with concern. 

“You’re sure he can do it?”

“Can he… Are you having me on, Hermione? Have you heard him talk about potions? Have you seen some of the things that have come out his lab? He’s a bloody genius.”

Her concern turns more sharp-eyed and she leans forward, about to ask another question, when Ron interrupts. “So, what’s it like, having a crush on your flatmate?”

“It’s bloody terrible, what do you think?” You don’t add that it’s something you’ve been dealing with for a fair bit of time. They don’t know him like you do. And it’s just… it’s just not something you’re ready to talk about. 

“Because it’s _Malfoy_? Or because it’s... Draco?”

You blink at him. Ron has acquired a habit of odd, cryptic phrasings—you think he must have gotten it from spending too much time around Luna. Weirdly enough, for someone with the emotional range of a teaspoon, Ron had joined Luna’s magical psychiatry practice as a counselor and has been doing incredible work with kids. At any rate, you don’t feel like being psychoanalysed and you don’t feel like unknotting the meaning of his clearly intentionally daft question.

“Oh!” Hermione gasps. She is much more impressed with Ron’s newfound depths. “You’re so right!”

“Right about what?” 

“It’s ‘Draco’ now. It’s been ‘Draco’ for a while,” Hermione says.

“He’s been Draco his whole bloody life, what are you both on about?”

They both turn to stare at you with equally owlish looks. You would swear that Luna’s infested their heads with nargles, if you had ever bothered to figure out what nargles were supposed to be. 

“I hadn’t consciously realised it until just now, but you call him Malfoy to his face and Draco to everyone else.”

You blanch. 

“I reckon I do,” you admit, wondering if half of Wizarding Britain had sussed out your thing for your erstwhile rival/current flatmate.

Hermione nods distractedly, having already moved on to the next thing. What the next thing will turn out to be, you are quite sure you don’t want to know.

“So it isn’t a love potion, then, is it? It’s some other kind of thing.”

You nod miserably. There’s no point denying it. “It just lowers my inhibitions. To. You know. My feelings. And, uh, the things I want to do. With him.” Distantly, you’re impressed that they’re taking this in stride. In the immediate present, you’re hoping Hermione or Ron has some brilliant solution to your situation.

“And what precautions have you taken?”

“Well, that’s just it. I can’t take any precautions, because the potion won’t let me. Draco had been casting a spell that prevented me going within four feet of him, but then even that was… just not working out, so he left.”

“He left!” Ron blurts. “What a cock-knob!” 

It’s good to know that Ron hasn’t entirely changed. 

“No, Ron,” Hermione says. “He left because he didn’t want Harry to suffer under the strain of resisting his desires.”

“So, the thing is.” You stop. This is much harder to say than you’d thought it would be. “The thing is, he’s going to find out the nature of the potion any day now, and then he’ll know how I feel. And then I reckon he’s going to move out for good. And there’s nothing I can do about that. And I…” you break off, a lump obstructing your throat. 

Hermione gets down on the floor and leans against your knee, rubbing it with one hand. Ron gives you a long, sympathetic look, then gets up to rummage in your kitchen for a couple of lagers. 

“It’s going to be fine,” you say. “He’ll move out, I’ll get over him.”

Hermione looks up at you, her eyes a bit wet. “But you don’t want to get over him.” 

“No, I don’t.”

“Are you so certain he doesn’t feel the same?” Ron asks, handing you a bottle and taking a huge swig of his own. “He’s always been a little—” He makes a funny gesture with his hand. “About you. Barmy isn’t the word I’m looking for.” 

“Daft,” supplies Hermione. 

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

You take a long drink, then set it down and close your eyes. “If you had seen him these last few weeks, the way he looks when I… when I make it clear that I want… you would know he doesn’t feel the same.” 

You’re not going to tell them about the journal entry you found; that wouldn’t be fair to Draco. Besides, it doesn’t change anything. So what if he’s attracted to you? That doesn’t mean he wants to be with you. 

After you finish your beer, you thank Ron and Hermione for stopping by. They both cast concerned frowns at you at they walk out the door, which makes you feel worse than ever. 

The fact that Draco is attracted to you is the worst thing that could have happened. Because part of you wants to take whatever it can get. But you know yourself too well. It’s a recipe for disaster.

Robards has put you on leave, which is absurd and very worrying. Because the exhaustion hasn’t gotten better, and you wonder if this bloody potion is ever going to stop tormenting you.  


You’re standing in the kitchen, overpowered by memories of how Draco looks when he’s puttering around, mumbling to himself or singing under his breath. How the sunlight hits his hair in the mornings when he’s staring into the depths of his coffee mug as if it held the secrets of the universe. You’re starvingly hungry but nothing sounds good. You’re just reaching for a half-empty box of Golden Snitches, planning to eat it dry by the fistful, when there’s a knock at the door. 

You put the cereal down and wonder who on earth it could be. 

“Who’s there?” 

“It’s me,” comes Draco’s voice, and your heart contracts painfully. “I need to talk to you about the antidote.”

You wonder why he didn’t warn you of his visit, as your body automatically goes to the door. It’s been in motion since your ears first registered the voice as his, but part of you doesn’t want to see him. You know you look terrible. 

You open the door and there he stands, looking hardly any better than you. “Are you hungry?” you ask, relieved that you’re not feeling an urge to launch yourself at him or grind up against him. “I could make some eggs or…”

His lovely mouth twists up on one corner. “I’ve had your eggs, so thanks but no thanks. I just, er… I’m really close to having an antidote. But there’s one thing I need from you.”

Uh-oh. He’s obviously reluctant to ask for this, which means it’s something he doesn’t think you’re going to want to give.

“What is it?” You walk into the sitting room and he follows you but stays by the door. You turn and are about to sit when you realize he has no intention of sitting, or staying. So you remain standing as well, as you start to feel that familiar burn to be closer to him. He looks exhausted, grey smudges under his eyes.

“The antidote has to be calibrated to the victim,” he starts. “I’m going to need a thought from you. About what you’re resisting.”

“Isn’t it perfectly obvious what I’m resisting?” You shrug and look out the window, at some Muggle pedestrians, who are blissfully unaware of the horrific predicaments wizards can get themselves into. Your stomach feels like it's trying to digest itself.

“Well, no. It’s not actually obvious.” There’s a short silence. He looks profoundly uncomfortable. “The potion makes it seem like you want… something from me, but the nature of the potion, it doesn’t simulate a specific emotion, it—”

You finish for him, unable to bear hearing him say the words. “It breaks down inhibitions. Yeah. I know.”

Draco's eyes widen, then narrow thoughtfully. He shifts position where he stands but doesn’t move. “So. What were you inhibiting, then? You want to fuck me?” His posture is a challenge, head cocked and shoulders thrown back. 

Oh fuck, no. If he starts this up again, you’re going to give in. You’re going to give in, and you’ll fuck for a while, until you’re out of his system and he’s in yours, all the way inside you permanently, irrevocably, and then he’ll see that you need more from him, so much more than just his body, and just… No.

“Put that barrier up, Draco.” You feel your cells straining towards him; you won’t be able to resist for more than half a minute. 

“No.” His eyes are wide, his pupils as blown as you’ve ever seen them. 

“Put it up.” 

“What if I don’t want to?”

“It won’t be consensual.” 

“Says who?” Draco is smirking now, a twisted little half-smile that you don’t like, as he takes a step towards you. His eyes gleam as though he has a delicious secret, like he’s about to give you something he knows you want. But he doesn’t have what you want. He only has heartbreak; he has the end of your friendship. 

“I say so.” 

“What do you know, anyway?” He’s taking another step, his head tilted in a predatory way. 

You have to stop him from playing this game. Because it isn't a game. “Look, I know you want me.”

“You _what?_ ”

Draco stops dead in his tracks.

“I saw your notes. I know you want to… bend me over. Strip my clothes off.” 

Draco stares at you, face flushed and mouth open, and instantly all you can think of is making him gasp in pleasure.

It doesn’t matter that sex wouldn’t be enough; your body, your blood recognizes that Draco wants you and it doesn’t care that mere fucking would destroy you. You cast a body bind on yourself, but you’re so divided against yourself that it’s completely useless. Half-formed ropes slither to the floor and vanish into mist.

“I can’t cast it myself, Draco,” you say, your voice shaking with panic. “Cast it for me, _please_. My body wants you but I _can’t_ , I don’t want to. This _fucking potion_ is fucking with my head and I can’t take it anymore!” You’re nearly yelling this last part as you start to move towards him. 

Draco casts it, his arm shaking. You’re wrapped in strong black ropes that cut into your forearms and calves.

“So,” he says, low and quiet, not meeting your eyes anymore. “You know how I feel and you don’t want that. Okay. Okay. That’s great. I’m working on the antidote, yeah? I’m not even good enough to fuck, that’s excellent to know. I should probably make this situation with Pansy permanent. Just. Let me get that thought and I can go.” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” You hadn’t reckoned on just how addling it would be to be in Draco’s presence with everything out in the open. You’re sick to your stomach but your body is flooded with heat and you can’t focus on anything. 

“I need a thought from you. I need you to extract a thought about what you want. Wanted. Whatever. So give me that and I can get the fuck out of here.” 

Of course. Well, there’s no use fighting it.

“How am I supposed to do that?” you say, looking down at your bound hands. 

Draco pulls out his wand and a little vial. “Just call an image to mind, some of the things that you were—whatever you were resisting.” He looks away and swallows. 

"Alright, fine," you rasp. You close your eyes and focus. _Here’s a thought of us waking up together and I’m bringing you coffee in bed and kissing you all over and telling you I love you and I’m so glad you moved in._ You stand there, trembling, as Draco puts his wand to your temple. A shivery sensation rushes over you and you open your eyes to watch him as he puts the damned thing into a vial. 

“Are you going to watch it?” You can’t stop yourself from asking, even though the answer is obvious.

“I have to, to blend it into the rest of the antidote properly. I’ll owl it to you when it’s done. Nice knowing you, Potter.” He Finites the Incarcerous with a flick of his wrist.

And with that, he walks out of the flat and out of your life. 


	6. Chapter 6

October 26th, 2004

Harry’s thought is haunting me. Not that I’ve seen it yet. 

I can barely stand to think about what happened at our flat. His flat, now. 

I’m such a fucking moron. There I am, ready to accept whatever scraps he might want to give—wanting just the touch of his body if I can’t have any more than that. And of course. Of course it turns out that he doesn’t even want to feel physical attraction towards me. I’m not even sufficient for a roll in the sack. 

But part of him wanted it. Part of him desires me, if even he doesn’t want to act on it.

I don’t know how I can look at a fantasy of us fucking or whatever is in that vial. 

***

October 27th, 2004

I can’t sleep. 

I have to know.

I’m going in.

The fantasy was... oh fuck, it was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. It was so simple. I was lying in bed, naked with the sheets twisted around my waist, and he was bringing me coffee. Then he kissed me, my mouth, my neck, my chest, my wrists, my hands, and all the while he was telling me how much he loved me. How glad he was that I'd moved in, that I was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

I am a complete knob. I am the luckiest knob in the entire world.

I can’t believe that arsehole couldn’t just tell me how he felt, is he a Gryffindor or not? 

I have everything I need to make the antidote. It’s steeping now and it should be done in twelve hours. 

I’m going to fuck him through his mattress and my mattress and the floor and I’m going to touch his face and tell him how wonderful he is and how much I love listening to his stomach growl when he gets home, and watching him eat the food I make for him, and how much I love letting him win at chess… no, wait. If I love him, and he loves me, I’d better let him continue to think that he’s really winning. But he definitely needs to learn another opening strategy. 

I’m going to tell him I love him and we’re going to be together. 

FUCK YOU, WIZENGAMOT!!! I FOUND A WAY TO BE HAPPY AND IT INCLUDES FUCKING YOUR BOY HERO INTO THE FUCKING MATTRESS!!!

***

October 28, 2004

The antidote is finally done. 

Not that that does me any good.

Because as I was simpering like a fool and thinking about telling Harry that I feel the same way he does, it occurred to me that even if he’s in love with me, he chose not to do anything about it. He _chose_ not to act on it. There has to be a good reason. Very likely one that I don’t want to know. 

Well, fuck. Looks like I won’t be rubbing this in the Wizengamot’s face any time soon. 

Harry didn’t want me to see that thought. Harry is probably sick at the knowledge that I know… I can’t do this to him. I don’t want to know, I don’t want to have found out this way. If it’s true—it has to be true, it came from directly inside his brain—if it’s true, I want to hear it from him. 

And if he doesn’t want to tell me, then I don’t want to know.

Once I’ve got the potion in a labeled vial, I’ll get Pansy to Oblivate me and hide this journal. I want to be able to tell him honestly that I don’t know what was in that thought.

No one has ever felt like that for me, and I don't think anyone ever will again, and I have no way of knowing whether he'll ever tell me how he feels if I don't tell him first, and of course I'll never tell him if I forget how he feels because of the whole being-a-fucking-coward-thing, but... but I just can't keep this memory. It's not right.

God, I'm tearing up at my own noble sacrifice. I'm like fucking Sidney Carton here. It is a far, far better thing I do than I have ever done, etc etc.

> DRACO, YOU COMPLETE TIT. STOP COCKBLOCKING YOURSELF AND GO TELL POTTER HOW YOU FEEL, FOR CIRCE’S SAKE. LOVE, PANSY <3 <3 <3

***

October 29, 2004

Well, that’s just perfect. What a fucking twat Pansy is. Instead of hiding it like I EXPLICITLY ORDERED HER TO, she left the sodding journal on the breakfast table with a giant note Spellotaped on that said “READ PAGE TWELVE. INVITE ME TO THE WEDDING.”

At least she did Obliviate me. 


	7. Chapter 7

You take the note from the unfamiliar owl and see that it’s in Draco’s handwriting.

_I’ll be by around 7pm with the antidote, unless it’s a bad time. If no reply, I’ll assume it’s fine. -DM_

Your stomach plummets. A whole eight hours to wait, just fantastic.

At least you’ll be able to go back to the DMLE, once you’ve recovered. That’ll give you something to take your mind off of the utter disaster you’ve made of your life. You’ll still tell Robards about everything, obviously. What kind of friend would you be if you didn’t? Hopefully something good can come out of all this, and if that good thing happens to be Draco making a name for himself, so much the better.

You force yourself to eat, to reply to Hermione’s owl, and to Floo-call Ginny. The bath doesn’t help much but at least you’re clean for the first time in days. There’s nothing on the magi-telly and you find yourself reading a book that Draco left behind. The certain knowledge that he’s soon going to come pack up the rest of his things gnaws away at you.

The knock on the door, expected as it is, sends a wave of anxiety through you. You hope he’ll just hand over the potion; you’re done with being made to feel like an ill-trained dog who needs to be restrained. Casting Incarcerous on fleeing suspects will forever remind you of this period of your life. You’re not sure you’ll be able to cast it after this, actually. At least it wasn’t Expelliarmus, you joke with yourself as you go to answer the door. It would be a real tragedy to have to stop using your signature spell.

You open the door and he steps in, no words exchanged between you, not that any are needed. Draco, looking even more exhausted than before, holds out a little ampule full of an iridescent, smoky liquid. You uncap and down it without hesitation.

There’s a moment of silence, and then you ask, “Did you see the thought?” You’ve been too afraid to envision what his reaction might be to it; only now do you realize how strongly you’ve been hoping that he’ll say ‘yes’ and fling himself into your arms, murmuring how relieved he is that you feel the same about him.

Instead, Draco shakes his head.

“But you said you’d have to,” you say, wondering why your mouth still doesn’t appear to be under your conscious control.

“Well, yes, actually I did see it,” he says after a pause, and you flinch. He doesn’t look happy about it. “But I asked Pansy to Obliviate me and hide my journal in case I wrote anything about it.”

You stare at him, trying to work out why he would have done that, but you don’t want to ask for fear of seeming stupid.

“Why did you do that?” You end up asking anyway, and are now seriously wondering about the efficacy of this potion.

“Because I could tell that you didn’t want me to see it, and it was the only way I could see it and not see it at the same time.” He shuts his mouth as though he was about to add something but thought better of it.

“Well, thanks. That was decent of you.” A wave of relief rolls through you, followed by recognition of what a good friend Draco has been to you. You suddenly twig to how horribly rude you’re being at the moment. “Do you want a beer or anything?” He nods and you go into the kitchen and fetch a couple beers, a brand that Draco introduced you to.

“Cheers,” he says, and you smile.

“So, are you staying at Pansy’s, then?” you ask, instead of asking if he’s moving out. You know it amounts to the same thing but those words don’t want to leave your mouth.

Draco nods again. “Looks like it. She’s, er... she’s a bit down at the moment. The one-two punch of Neville dumping her and not getting that position with the Muggle fashion magazine. I think she could use the company.”

“Neville didn’t dump her, she dumped him,” you find yourself saying, and instantly he’s glaring at you.

“Neville as good as dumped her, when he didn’t take her to Luna and Ginny’s wedding.” He’s gone from slouching comfortably against the counter-top to standing his full height, giving you what you’ve privately dubbed ‘the Lucius Look.’ You can’t lie to yourself; the Lucius Look has always given you fantasies of dropping to your knees for him. You used to provoke him into arguments just so you could see it. To be fair, it’s only hot because he turned out _not_ to be anything like his father.

“Yeah, but that’s because she said you were taking her!”

“I was taking her, but he ought to have known that was purely platonic and I only asked her because it had been twenty-seven days since the date had been announced and he still hadn’t formally asked for her company.” He spat the words ‘twenty-seven days’ as though the number 27 had personally offended him at some point.

You blink at him.

“It’s a Pureblood thing.”

You blink some more. This has always been very effective in getting him to explain weird shit without you having to ask.

“You cretin. For formal events in the Wizarding world, the done thing is to ask your paramour for their company within no longer than a fortnight, otherwise you’re all but announcing to the world that it’s just a meaningless fling.”

“But you of all people ought to know that Neville has never been a very good Pureblood. It’s his way of rebelling against his grandmother. He probably didn’t even know about the fortnight thing.”

Draco’s face flushes. You decide to drive the point home.

“Neville talks about Pansy all the time. He hasn’t seen anyone else since the split. And you know how the ladies love Neville.”

“Pansy thought that Neville had gotten tired of her. She talks of little else, actually.”

“Well, someone ought to tell Neville that.”

You both stare at each other.

“Our friends are idiots, you know,” Draco says, his voice strained.

“So they’re in love with each other and all these months of heartache could have been avoided with—”

“Some clear communication,” Draco finishes, and his eyes roam around the room and land on yours, questioningly.

Your heart is about to seize up or burst or something. Speaking of heartache.

“Why did you move out?” It’s not what you intended to ask, and in one way the answer is painfully clear, but you want to hear what he has to say.

“Because I was worried for you.” There’s a long pause, during which your breath doesn’t leave your throat. That wasn't what you were expecting. Draco takes a deep breath and sighs it out.

"Worried for me? Why?"

"Merlin's beard, Potter, you passed out from the effort of holding yourself back. Resisting the potion was draining the life out of you."

"But you leaving, it didn't change it all that much. I still... the feelings were still there. I had to take a leave of absence from my job."

“I know, and I'm sorry about that. I also left because couldn't focus properly on making the antidote, with you around. You--you kept coming for me, and I-"

"I'm sorry to have been such a burden," you interrupt.

"Let me finish," Draco says firmly. "I needed some space because I needed to focus. Because I wanted you. So, so much. I heard you, you know, touching yourself in your bedroom. Saying my name. I wanted you so badly, it was torture to hear you wanting me, needing me, and I couldn't do anything about until you were in your right mind, freely able to choose your own actions. I was worried for both of us, worried that I was going to take advantage of you. Ruin our friendship.”

Your eyes meet his and it’s like a bolt of lightning strikes your spine and electrifies every nerve in your body. Hearing that Draco wants you is a huge relief, but somehow it's the other thing he said that's lighting you up.

“Our friendship is important to you?” You grip the edge of the counter, fearful that you’re going to end up with your arms around him without having made the choice to move.

“What do you think, you idiot?” He laughs. “I just spent a week killing myself to make that antidote for you. I hope to everything holy and unholy that it works. ”

He looks at you again; a clinical, assessing look, but his cheeks are hectic with color.

“How do you feel right now?” he asks, gaze sweeping over you. He must see your erection through the thin material of your trackies, but he gives no visible sign.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, then open them and scan his face. You feel as overwhelmed with yearning as ever, but you’re not moving towards him.

“I feel… fine,” you say. It’s a vast understatement. You feel exhilarated.

“No uncontrollable urges to kiss me?” he asks, his voice low.

You shake your head.

“Then again, I’m all the way on the other side of the room. Let’s give it a real test.”

Draco starts walking towards you, and he’s undoing his waistcoat button by button as he approaches.

“How about now?”

A fresh wave of desire rolls through you, and euphoria as well. You manage to say, “I’m good.”

“Not going to tackle me? Have your way with me?” He’s moving at a glacial pace, his waistcoat gone and his fingers working at the smaller buttons of his shirt. You’re still able to remain where you are, though you want desperately to help him with the rest of his clothes. Your blood is singing in your veins and the room is bright, brighter than it’s ever been.

He stops a few feet away, draping his shirt and waistcoat on the arm of the sofa. His lovely, nimble hands move to his belt and your eyes flutter shut for a moment, only to open and fixate on the sight of the belt slipping open like an invitation. Then his trousers are open and sliding down.

“Any problems, Potter?” He’s trying to play cool, and if you didn’t know him better, you’d think he was actually unmoved—except that his pulse is beating fast in his throat and his erection is clearly visible in his pants. He’s stepping out of the pooled trousers now, an anatomically-correct angel in Muggle boxer-briefs.

You have a considerable amount of difficulty dragging your eyes away from the sight of his hard cock in his thin underwear, but at length you manage to meet his gaze and shake your head. Draco smirks playfully at you, but then his eyes darken and he lets his fingertips play with the elastic of his pants. He quirks his eyebrows in a question and you nod, feeling your cock twitch in anticipation. With a smooth, sensual motion, he pushes them all the way to the floor and kicks them off, standing again with his cock jutting out towards you. It’s as perfect as the rest of him, curved slightly, the head just peeking out past the foreskin.

The desire to take it in your mouth is overwhelming, but you remain rooted in place until he steps forward a foot, and then you find yourself swooning a little bit.

“Steady on, Potter,” he murmurs as he comes even closer. You’re so close now, easily close enough to take him in hand and start jacking his gorgeous cock, but you don’t. Easily close enough to angle your head and brush your lips against his, but you don’t.

“How do you feel now?” His voice is a honeyed rasp, his eyes heavy-lidded. You feel drugged, but only by him, not the potion.

“I want you,” you say, a hoarse whisper, “but I can wait.”

He smiles; a full, incandescent smile which turns to a speculative smirk as he looks you up and down. “The real test is whether your control breaks when I touch you.”

Your breath leaves you in a rush as his hands reach for your hair. Draco runs his fingers through it, caressing your ear, and your eyes slide shut. You press your hands to your thighs to keep them from grabbing at him; you are both loving and hating this little game, but it’s so perfectly Draco that you don’t want it to end until he’s satisfied.

He trails his hand down the side of your face and across your lips. “Still doing alright?” he asks, index finger on your lower lip. You don’t move an inch. You’re transfixed by the look in his eyes--triumphant and dazed.

“May I--?” he asks as his finger slips from your mouth to your chin and lower, down your neck to your collarbone and inside the t-shirt, pulling it away from your body in a clear inquiry about undressing you. You wish so much he were kissing you right now, but you’re glad you’ll have an unimpeded view of his reaction to your body. You’re not exactly ignorant of the fact that you look pretty good in the buff. False modesty hasn’t ever been one of your flaws.

“Go ahead.”

He slides his hand down the front of your shirt, humming in the back of his throat. His other hand slides up under your shirt, skimming along your flank and chest as he lifts the shirt over your head. Your arms come up and then the shirt is off and he’s holding it. He maintains eye contact while he brings it to his face.

“I love the way you smell, did you know that?” He inhales deeply, then tosses it aside, and you feel like you honestly may die if you don’t get to touch him soon. Draco’s upper chest is flushed and you glance down to see that his cock is dripping precome. You close your eyes and pray that Draco takes pity on both of you soon.

“You know what really got me, what made it such hell to keep away from you?” He’s standing so close that there can’t be more than two inches between you. “The things you would call me. When you called me ‘love’ for the first time… Merlin, Harry. I must have jacked off dozens of times to the memory of you saying that word to me. _Love_ ,” Draco murmurs in your ear, and you shudder.

He steps back and you nearly moan, your eyes flying open to see that he’s undoing the string of your trackies and looking at you for permission. You bite your lip and nod and he pushes them down. Your cock bobs as the waistband clears it and then you’re standing in a puddle of nylon fabric, totally naked in front of Draco. His eyes search your face; you can’t stop staring at his mouth.

“You can tell me to stop if I do something you don’t want,” he says after a moment

“I’ll never tell you to stop,” you say, “because I want everything.”

“Everything?”

“Everything,” you confirm, while your heart hammers wildly. “Everything we had and everything we didn’t have. All of it.”

“So I don’t need to move in with Pansy?”

You feel like you’re lighting up from within, a Lumos spreading through every fibre of your being. “Please don’t,” you can’t stop yourself from saying.

“Alright, I won’t.” He smiles and leans in, and then stops a millimeter away from your lips. “May I kiss you, Harry?” he asks, and his lips brush against yours with every word.

You don’t answer him, you just open your mouth under his and angle your head and wait. He huffs a soft laugh and then his tongue slides against yours and it’s like all the teasing and talking and touching culminates in a massive failure of control. Your arms come around him and you pull him to you hard enough to break a rib, it feels like, but he groans into your mouth and grabs you just as tightly.

Miraculously, the feeling overwhelming you at the moment isn’t arousal but elation.

Although the arousal is rallying and coming up in the ranks pretty fast.

Draco palms your arse and then kneads it firmly. “My bedroom or yours?” he growls, pulling on you to get you to move towards the door.

“It’s up to you,” you say, and he whirls you around and pushes you towards your room, hands never leaving your body as you both stumble towards the bed.

Draco herds you onto your bed, covering you with his body as you slide across the sheets. His body feels incredible against yours and you lose yourself in the feel of the slow grind he starts up, dragging his cock against yours with a languid rolling motion that has you arching up for more.

“Is this what you thought about when you wanked in your room and chanted my name?” Draco purrs in your ear, smug and unbearably sexy and so, so right.

“Yeah,” you say, “but also this.” You spread your legs under him and guide his hand between your legs, behind your bollocks. He makes a deep noise of appreciation in his throat and slides his fingers down the channel between your cheeks, seeking your entrance. When he finds it, you squirm and throw your head back in surrender. He could just play with your hole for an hour and you wouldn’t care. This is heaven, right here, his fingers touching you, a promise of everything you’ve needed, about to be fulfilled.

“You like that?” he mutters against your mouth.

“Yes,” you breathe and draw him into a deep, filthy kiss as he presses his finger in a fraction. There’s no lube yet, he’s just teasing and testing and it’s going to drive you mad, but you don’t mind.

“I want to fuck you, Harry,” he says after a moment, looking into your eyes, and you grin at the hesitancy there. You’re so happy that you get to dispel his doubts.

“I’ve never wanted anything more in my entire life. You can fuck me as hard and as deep as you want. Please.” And you punctuate this by grinding down on his finger.

Draco’s eyes light up and he beams down at you. “We’re going to have so much fun, Potter,” he says, voice graveled with a hundred different emotions, mostly on the joy-spectrum. Then he kisses you again, a quick slide of tongue against tongue, before he moves down between your legs and presses your thighs apart.

You’re expecting him to conjure some lube and start fingering you open, so when you feel his tongue on you, you writhe and gasp. His hands grab your hips to hold them down and he lifts his head to say, “stay put, Potter,” with a smirk in his voice. You grin and throw your head back. This is fun and easy, this is the best, why haven’t you done this before?

It’s impossible to stay put, though, when his tongue is teasing your hole with slick, darting motions, just enough to awaken all the nerves but not enough to satisfy the bone-deep need for something inside you. You grind down and he pulls away, chuckling. You groan and go limp, and he starts up again, putting you in your place without a word.

The rimming goes on for what feels like an hour; you lose track of time when his tongue finally breaches you entirely and then he gets his fingers in, lubed and slippery. Draco has an unerring sense for exactly how much pressure to put on your prostate and you’re going wild underneath him. He levers himself up just as you think you can’t take any more; you’re breathless and sweaty and he looks similarly wrecked.

“Is this alright?” he asks, and you burst out laughing. “Well fine, be that way,” he mutters, then shuts you up with his tongue in your mouth. You’re thrusting up against his belly, trying to get some friction on your poor cock, and he lets you for a minute, thrusting back and making little helpless moaning sounds into your mouth. Then he pulls back and sits on his heels, looking down at you with such adoration on his face that you almost want to hide. You can’t believe this is happening, at last, and that it’s even better than you’d ever been able to imagine.

He fists his cock while you watch, transfixed by the sight of the head disappearing and reappearing in the tight circle of his hand. You want it inside you, but you want to watch him bring himself off, too, because he looks beautiful like this, open and abandoned and magnificent.

You reach out to touch his cock and he lets his hand fall away, watching as your hand wraps around it and strokes. He gasps and bucks into your fist, head falling back, his whole body arching in pleasure. Your thumb grazes the wet head and he keens, then pushes your hand away, saying, “It’s too good, Harry, I’ll come if you keep that up. You want me to fuck you?”

“Fuck yeah,” you reply, “but it’s been awhile, might want to--” you trail off, shifting over onto your stomach to show him what you mean. It would be fantastic to watch his face as he fucks you, but that will have to wait.

“Oh Merlin,” he says as you settle on your front, your arse in the air. You feel exponentially more exposed now, and your cock throbs. “Your arse, Potter. Harry, you have the most amazing arse, holy fuck…” His hands grope your cheeks for a moment, spreading and kneading them, before he presses his cock between them and thrusts a little into the channel they make. You thrust backwards, seeking more, and you can feel the head of his cock catching on the rim of your hole.

“Nnnngggh, fuck, Harry,” he grunts, and adjusts his cock until it’s in the perfect position to breach you. But he doesn’t press in; he rests his hands on your hips and lets you push back at your own pace. “That’s right, take me,” he whispers, “come on, Potter, take it, yeah.” He keeps muttering encouragement as you thrust yourself back onto him, groaning when the head sinks in past the ring of muscle. Your arms are trembling, your whole body shaking; it’s been a long time since you’ve done this and the sensations are incredibly intense.

But Draco doesn’t push, doesn’t even beg. When you move, he praises you. When you stop, he waits. You thrust back again, getting more of his length inside of you, pressing you wide, and he chants, “yes yes yes, oh fuck, yes Harry.” You love hearing your name in his mouth so you push back again and again, hoping to drive him out of his mind, get him to start moving. Soon, you’re panting and nearly full, his cock almost bottoming out, but you need him to take it that final step, so you say, “Fuck me, _now._ ”

Those words open the floodgates. With a wordless groan, he pulls your hips back onto him, sinking in until he’s flush against you, and you’re as full as you could possibly be, body and soul. He leans over you, murmuring incomprehensible endearments, or encouragement, or just nonsense, but the sound of his voice washes over you as he starts to thrust. It’s tiny motions at first, not enough, so you rear back on him and say, “More.”

He pulls out until it’s just the head inside, then thrusts all the way in, in a smooth, heavy slide that has your eyes rolling back in your head. After that, it picks up speed until you feel like you’re both on a ride you barely have control over and you don’t care. His thrusts take you higher and higher until your arms collapse under you and you’re on your chest, back bowed, arse up and full of him.

Draco pounds into you and it’s like nothing you’ve felt before because you’re holding nothing back, and neither is he. It becomes a blur of sensation that peaks and then peaks again, and then your cock is spurting come against the sheets and he’s groaning your name and filling you up. He slumps down on top of you and you roll to your side until you both are a sated mess of tangled limbs, your mouths meeting in soft, sloppy kisses.

There’s a long moment of slowing breaths and slowing pulses, hands drifting over shoulders and chests and trailing through hair. You let the silence stretch on because it’s not uncomfortable; it feels totally natural and right, being naked and quiet with him. Unexpected tears well up in your eyes and you squeeze them tight, blinking them away.

“Just to be clear, ‘everything’ means we’re together, right?” Draco asks after a few minutes. It’s such a dumb question, after all that you’ve been through, that you want to punch him. In a loving way.

You decide, just this once, to be a dick. “What do you mean, ‘together’?”

Draco falls silent for a moment. “As in, boyfr-”

You start laughing and he rears up over you to pin you to the bed. “You arse! I’m trying to be vulnerable here. I’m trying to be a clear communicator.”

You grin up at him. “How’s this for clear communication? Draco Malfoy, will you be my boyfriend and flatmate and live with me until we’re sick of the sight of each other?”

“Ah, you mean forever, then. Why didn’t you just say so?” he says superciliously and you throw a pillow at his head.

***

 

>   
>  May 2, 2005
> 
> I haven't written in this journal in yonks, because the Ministry has its own protocol for potions analysis and the magically-encoded and indexed journals never leave the labs. Robards was so impressed with my dedication and ingenuity in saving Harry from his mysterious potions-induced malady that he forced Magical Forensics to hire me on. TAKE THAT, WIZENGAMOT.
> 
> So yes, that's brilliant and I'm brilliant and Harry's brilliant (but not that brilliant, because he thought I wasn't aware that he'd deliberately failed to seek medical help so that I would get all the credit for saving him, the giant self-sacrificing pillock) and hurrah, everything's coming up Draco and so forth.
> 
> I moved back in with Harry pretty much immediately, which was fortuitous as no sooner had I told Pansy that Neville was still pining for her than she'd bodily dragged him back to her condo and began fucking him on every available flat surface (both horizontal and vertical).
> 
> They got married today, the seventh anniversary of the Battle, very auspicious. Hardly any jokes were made about Pansy's attempt to deliver Harry to the Dark Lord, but many, many jokes were made about Neville and his heroics with swords and snakes. (Mainly along the lines of "vanquishing" his "Slytherin" with his "sword.") Other than that, the wedding was absolutely lovely in every respect.
> 
> It’s only too bad that Potter upstaged them by proposing to me.
> 
> (I said yes.)

**Author's Note:**

> I have often written stories in which consent is quite dubious, or at the very least, assumed and not explicit. So writing a story around enthusiastic and explicit consent was a fresh take for me and led me to examine all the ways in which people tend to erroneously assume things about each other. 
> 
> The crux of consent for me is concern for the other person - not CYA, but making sure that your partner is seen and heard completely. Because that's the sexiest thing of all, right? Everyone wants to be seen and have their needs acknowledged. I hope I managed to paint a picture of two people who care so much for the other that the thought of trampling a boundary is anathema.


End file.
